


Reminiscence

by GoodOldBaz



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Memories, Sad Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 00:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18187481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodOldBaz/pseuds/GoodOldBaz
Summary: Hercule Poirot is getting old, and as often happens, he remembers his life with sadness.





	Reminiscence

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I believe Achille Poirot was a real person. My own personal head canon is that Achille was a sickly boy, and passed at a young age. Poirot only later used him as a disguise in The Big Four.

Hercule Poirot leaned back stiffly in his chair and glanced around the doctor’s office. His arthritis had been acting up lately and it sometimes made it difficult for him to sit comfortably in anything but his oldest and most form-fitting of armchairs. He tapped his foot lightly on the tile floor and glanced around him. Across from him sat a somewhat elderly lady, though not quite so old as himself, who reminded him very much of the nurse he had had as a child. Although his family had not been wealthy she had always been willing to stay with them, even for such a small amount of money. Everyone knew well the frail young Mrs. Poirot could not have handled both her rambunctious twins without the dear woman. She had become something of a saint in the town.  
As Poirot sent another glance over at the woman a sudden memory from his early childhood, a thing he’d thought he’d blocked out of his mind years ago, came vividly back into his imagination. The doctor’s office, he thought to himself, it was very much like this one.  
\------------------  
“Hercule, Achille,” came the low, rough voice of the elderly woman.  
The three-year-old twins looked up at their nurse from the seat they shared in the corner of the doctor’s office.  
“Yes, Nurse?” asked Hercule, his big, bright green eyes looking up inquisitively. He didn’t understand why they were here at all.  
“It’s time to go home now, mes petits garçons,” she replied, reaching out her wrinkled hand to them.  
Hercule slid down from the chair, and his brother after him. As Nurse led Hercule, and Hercule led Achille, the thin little boy with the deep brown eyes looked over at his brother and pulled on his hand.  
“Hercule, where’r Mama ‘n Papa?” he asked, his dark brows knit with concern and his voice slightly slurred by the scar on his lip. Hercule turned to his nurse.  
“Nurse,” he said, looking up at her, “Where are Mama and Papa?”  
Nurse paused, looking down at the chubbier of her two little charges. “Papa is not well, ma chére. Mama told me to take you both home until he is better.”  
Hercule paused, and turned to his brother, repeating the message. Just as Nurse got the twins to the edge of the office, Hercule heard a faint noise from behind him and turned around swiftly. His mother had come out into the waiting room and stood before Nurse and her sons, her face white as a sheet and her thin frame quivering. Even though Hercule Poirot was only three years old, he could tell something was terribly wrong. He let go of his nurse’s hand and lead his twin to stand nearer to his mother.  
“What is the matter, Mama?” he asked, staring up at her.  
The beautiful, dark-haired woman glanced only momentarily at Hercule, then at Achille, and then at Nurse.  
“He’s dead,” she said faintly. “Papa is dead.”  
\-------------------  
Hercule Poirot shivered and started, looking up suddenly from the floor to the man who stood before him.  
“Mr. Poirot?” the young doctor asked with a smile.  
“Oui, that is I,” replied the old detective.  
The doctor nodded. “Are you ready to come back?”  
Poirot nodded assent, slowly standing from his chair, and followed the young man to an examination room. As he waited his eyes moved languidly from one thing to another, until his eye fell on the painting on the wall – several little boys and a great brown dog. Poirot chuckled to himself as happy old memories flooded into his mind.  
\------------------------  
Six-year-old Hercule Poirot let out a shriek that could have woken the dead, and ran as fast as his chubby little legs would carry him. The big brown Labrador pup following close at his heels, clearly enjoying every minute of the chase.  
“Don’t let it touch me! Don’t let it touch me!” he cried, now sprinting to hide behind Nurse. “I do not want it to get me dirty!”  
The weak little Achille Poirot, who sat safely up on the veranda, giggled until he was out of breath as Hercule ran from one end of the small yard to the other, the muddy pup never more than a few feet behind, tail wagging and tongue flopping. Finally the stocky little boy made his way to his brother on the veranda, climbed up the steep steps, and found himself safely out of reach of the muddy pup, who knew his boundaries well. He reached out his chubby hand and patted the dog’s head.  
“Good boy,” he said with a smile. “Come on, Achille,” he said patting the dog again. “His head is not dirty. You won’t get muddy.”  
The little boy crawled off his chair and moved over toward his twin. With one hand he took a hold of his brother’s, and together they gently stroked their dog.  
\-----------------  
As Poirot left the doctor’s office he let out a wistful sigh and looked down at his big, olive-toned hands, the hands that had so often lead his sickly twin brother from this place to that. Somehow, now that he was in his old age, even his happiest of memories would leave him with a bittersweet feeling. He raised his hand to hail a cab, climbed labouredly in, and sat down. In his younger years he would often chat with the cabby, but now he did not quite feel up to it. He placed his hands over the silver top of his cane and glanced momentarily at the old ring he wore on his left pinky finger. He had several rings which he would alternate at different times, but this one in particular held a sentimental value to the aged detective.  
\----------------  
“Hercule,” came the soft sound of his mother’s voice.  
The portly, sturdy figure of the 13-year-old boy did not turn to her as she approached him, but continued to face out towards the seaside view, his large, olive-toned hands folded tightly over the railing of the balcony. Mrs. Poirot reached out her hand and placed it on her son’s shoulder. “Hercule,” she said again. This time he tilted his egg-shaped head and turned his face toward her.  
“Oui, Mama?” he said, his high-pitched voice cracking slightly.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Oui.”  
“You think of Achille, mon cher?”  
Hercule bowed his head and nodded slowly. “Of Achille and of Papa both.”  
Mrs. Poirot swallowed. “Then, mon beau jeune homme, I believe it is time I give you something very special. Something it is likely I ought to have given to you some time ago.” She held out her hand, and there, lying in the palm, was an old, golden signet ring in which was laid a smooth, dark red stone.  
The ring sparked a feeling of recognition in the boy’s mind but he could not place where he had seen it before. He lifted his bright green eyes to his mother’s with a raise of his dark eyebrows. “What is it, Mama?” he asked.  
“It was your Papa’s,” she said with a smile. “It was to have gone to Achille, for he was the older of the two of you, if only by a mere ten minutes, but now…” Mrs. Poirot stopped a moment, taking her son’s big hand and slipping the ring onto his finger. “I think it ought to go to you, mon cher.”  
\-------------------  
Poirot reached home at a quarter to four. He paid the cabby, walked slowly down the little cobble path, picked up the post, and went inside. Compared to the cool, fresh air of the brisk September evening the air in his little house was all but stifling, but Poirot did not mind, in fact, he rather liked it. He smiled ever so slightly as he remembered the countless times his friends had gibed and kidded him about his distaste for “the big air” leaving its natural habitat and coming into his home.  
\---------------  
“Please to close the window,” said the short, sturdily built young university student as he flicked a speck of dirt off of the sleeve of his impeccable silver-gray suit.  
“What?” exclaimed his roommate with a laugh. “Why on earth!? Ciel! Poirot! It’s a lovely day.”  
“The big air, Declercq,” said Hercule Poirot crossly, “Ought to stay outside, where it belongs.”   
Damian Declercq threw back his head and laughed. “What a funny fellow you are, Poirot. I don’t know how I’ll manage a whole year in the same room with you.”  
Poirot smiled faintly, but said nothing, for he was thinking the very same thing.  
\---------------  
Poirot pottered about his house, straightening and re-straightening everything he saw even though he knew he had done the very same thing the day before. He had to admit, as much as he liked the constant perfection and order of his little house, he sometimes missed the companion who always bumped the decoration and did not move it back, or dropped the match box or book and left it where it lay. He sat slowly into his chair and sipped his cocoa with a sigh. Of all the companions he had ever had who caused him the pain of seeing their disorder, there was one, even though perhaps the most untidy, whom he missed the most. He looked across the room at the old photograph which stood symmetrically on his desk. Gentle, rounded features, a long, thin nose, a slightly receding hairline, and a faint, child-like smile made up the honest face that he saw in the photo. With his mind’s eye he could still see the affable nature, the bravery and determination, the loyal friendship, the staunch morality and reliable strength, the graceful innocence – all he missed more than he could say. He let out a wistful little sigh. It was amazing, he thought to himself, how clearly he could remember the day he had met Hastings, even though it had been several decades ago.  
\-------------------------  
Arthur Hastings sat alone in a corner of the office of the Brussels’ police department, bolt upright in his hard chair, his lean, pale face full of anxiety and his long, thin hands extended stiffly over his knees. The middle-aged police detective looked at him keenly from across the room. There was no doubt, Hercule Poirot thought to himself, this was not the man who had committed the murder. It was obvious in the young man’s guileless face and simple blue eyes that he could not kill a man out of malice or jealousy even if he tried – for that matter, Poirot doubted considerably if the third-year university student had ever even had a feeling of malice or jealousy in his entire life. He thought it quite unlikely.  
At that moment that the young man’s gaze was resting squarely upon Poirot with a quite unidentifiable expression in his pale blue eyes.  
“You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” he asked in a gentle, refined voice.  
“Oui, Monsieur,” nodded Poirot, walking towards him. “And you are?”  
“Arthur Hastings,” smiled the young man, holding out a pale, lean hand to Poirot’s large, olive-toned one. “I’m the one who identified Murphy’s body after old Bill found him among the reeds by the pond.”  
“Oui, I know of you. You were also the man who informed the police that your friend was murdered with the duck rifle, and from what angle and distance the shot, it was fired, n'est-ce pas?”  
Hastings smiled and dug his hands deeply into his pockets. “Yes, that was me.”  
“Well then,” said Poirot with a smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Hastings.”  
With the faintest of modest blushes, the tallish young man asked eagerly if the detective had any idea of who the murderer might be.  
As Poirot looked at the honest face of the man opposite him he could not quite tell what it was that initially attracted him so strongly to Arthur Hastings, but from that moment on he considered him his closest and dearest of friends.  
\-------------------  
The next thing Poirot knew he had fallen asleep in his chair – a somewhat uncomfortable habit he had picked up about the first or second year of his retirement. He shifted with a little difficulty to find a more comfortable position, but was unable to, so he stood up and walked slowly about the room, trying in a vain attempt to lubricate his stiff limbs. He moved to his desk and slightly adjusted the photograph that sat there. It was a very good thing, friendship, he thought to himself, yes, indeed it was, but a thing very much missed when it was gone.  
With a sudden start Poirot looked to the door. Had he heard a knock there, or was it simply his tired imagination? He heard the sound again and knew it must be real. Slowly, he made his way there and reached for the handle. Only momentarily he wondered why someone would call upon him at such a late hour, but quickly opened the door. To his utter surprise, before him stood a lean, middle-aged man with a great smile on his face, holding out both his pale hands towards the detective.  
“Mon ami, Hastings?” said Poirot in a little apprehension, fearing his mind was somehow playing tricks on him. But as the man stepped into the light it became perfectly clear who it was who stood before him. “It is indeed, mon ami, Hastings!” Poirot exclaimed. With a sudden cry and a feeling of overwhelming delight the elderly man flew toward his friend, taking his hands in his and standing on his toes to kiss both his cheeks in a warm embrace. This time his friend did nothing to discourage the happy greeting. In a jumbled mixture of welcomes and hellos, attempted explanations of Hastings’ visit, and an overall rush of joyful exclamations and remarks, the two old friends moved together into the sitting room and began to reminisce.


End file.
